


An Honest Puck

by CracklPop



Series: Stetopher Week 2019 [3]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Bittersweet, M/M, Matchmaking, Midsummer Night's Dream References, Modern Era, Multi, Stetopher Week 2019, Well-Intentioned Meddling in the Lives of Mortals
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-30
Updated: 2019-10-30
Packaged: 2021-01-13 00:43:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,032
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21235313
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CracklPop/pseuds/CracklPop
Summary: Stiles is Puck, exiled to the mortal world as a changeling. Peter and Chris are sent by Queen Titania sixteen years later to bring him back home. But before he goes, Stiles has a little matchmaking in mind for Mischief Night. For the Stetopher Week 2019 prompt “Magic in All Forms.”





	An Honest Puck

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I don't own or profit from these characters.

A boy sat in a circle of mushrooms deep in the woods. He whistled idly and twisted the stem of a wildflower between his long fingers, waiting. Eventually, the air next to him shimmered and he lifted his head, a resigned cast to his face as he watched the shimmer solidify into a doorway. Two martial figures entered the mushroom ring and the boy stood unhurriedly, his lanky form close to the newcomers’ height but considerably narrower. 

“Hello, Mischief,” one of the men greeted, the wolf’s fur trim of his cloak ruffling slightly in the late-autumn breeze. 

The boy’s bright, gold-rimmed eyes looked up, amused and mocking. “They call me Stiles now, O Mighty Guard of her Gracious Majesty.”

“You remain, as always, a source of trouble,” the third man said flatly. “Whether your name be Puck or Robin Goodfellow or Mieczysław Mischief Stilinski.”

“One hundred percent agree,” Stiles replied, showing no signs of offense. “I assume you mean to tame my trouble, good Hunter, hmm? Well, you can’t be seen with me here looking like _that_. I’ll have to make you, shall we say, suitably attired.”

The youth waved a hand and suddenly both Guard and Hunter were dressed as mortals. 

“I think I’ll call old wolfie here…Peter. And you, Hunter, can be Christopher. Chris for short, eh? I like it.” Stiles nodded decisively. 

“Your mistress has called you home, Mischief,” said the newly christened Peter.

“My mistress? Hmm. I prefer to see her as more of a…boss. An immediate supervisor, if you will.”

“She is your queen,” Hunter-turned-Christopher said, eyebrows drawing together in disapproval. 

“And she does a great job!” Stiles was all big eyes and innocence. “She’s very…regal. Very, er, majestic and all that. But I live here right now, in this moment. And here in the land of curly fries and legalized marijuana, I like to think of myself as more of a freelance agent than a mindlessly obedient subject of my mistress.”

Peter snorted. 

“I doubt the phrase _mindless obedience_ has ever been applied to you.”

“Not with any veracity,” Stiles agreed. 

“What do they call these?” Peter asked, plucking at the woolen garments Stiles had glamoured for him. 

“Fashionable,” Stiles told him. “It’s a three-piece suit. I think it looks good.” 

Stiles’ honey-gold eyes made a slow and deliberate journey down Peter’s body, from the close fit of the jacket’s shoulders to the waistcoat over his flat stomach to the long line of his trousers and the tops of his well-polished shoes. Stiles tilted his head slightly and a narrow, velvet ribbon appeared to tie Peter’s long hair back at the nape of his neck. 

“The hair is, perhaps, not common these days. But it’s too pretty to spell away,” he said with another appreciative look. 

Chris cleared his throat and glanced down at his own clothing with a frown. 

“Why is mine different from his?” he demanded. 

“Mm,” Stiles murmured warmly, casting the Hunter a sly look from under his lashes. “You’ve got a different vibe from dear old Peter. Besides, I like a little variety.” 

Peter had paused in examining his own clothing to give Chris’ a critical eye. Judging by the expression on his face, he could see Stiles’ point. The Hunter’s long, lean legs were encased in well-fitted, perfectly worn denim. He wore black boots, a white cotton shirt so tight it showed the ridges of his abdominal muscles, and a dark leather jacket. 

The Guard and Hunter turned their attention back to Stiles when he gave a bitten-off moan. He shrugged, not bothering to look abashed at his enjoyment of their new wardrobes. 

“This body is sixteen years old. I only have so much control, and you know I regained my powers but recently.” Stiles flexed his thin fingers and gold sparks crackled at their tips. “It’s good to have myself back. Although I have to admit, the mortals are more engaging this time around. Even if I still say the entire situation is _very unfair_—”

“You agreed to the changeling terms within view of Titania’s entire court,” Chris put in sternly. “You knew the consequences of—”

“Well, no need to belabor it…_Christopher_,” Peter cut him off. 

“Let’s make a deal,” Stiles proposed. 

“There will be no dealing,” Christopher said. “You will accompany us to your queen’s throne, where you will—”

“What terms do you offer?” Peter interjected. 

“I show you a good time, you help me tie off a few loose ends around town, then by morning we’re all a hop, skip, and a twinkle away from fairyland. No more arguments, no more delays.” Stiles’ bright grin dimmed somewhat. “And then, as promised, Mieczysław will fade from mortal memory.” 

“I agree to the bargain,” Peter said. 

Christopher let loose a small but heartfelt groan, which Stiles took as victory. He executed a light-footed courtier’s bow in their direction. 

“Thank you for your indulgence, sirs,” he said. 

Peter put one broad hand on Stiles’ shoulder, bringing him back to standing. The other hand cupped Stiles’ jaw, the touch deliberately gentle, as his clear blue eyes bored down into Stiles’ upturned face. 

“If you think to elude us and send us back empty-handed, I will personally return you to Her Majesty in chains and feel not a moment’s hesitation,” Peter said. 

“When has the word of your Puck ever been in doubt?”

“That question sounds largely rhetorical,” Chris muttered. 

“True,” Stiles acknowledged. “Well, there’s little fun to be had in this dreary fairy ring. Our delights lie in the metropolis of Beacon Hills.” 

He directed them to a lovingly maintained, pale-blue vehicle that was parked a short distance away. 

“Surely you can’t expect us to join you in that,” Peter said. 

“Beats walking,” Stiles replied sweetly. 

“Your present form may allow you to travel in a cage of metal, but I prefer not to court discomfort,” said Peter. 

Christopher snapped his fingers and the shimmering doorway returned, this time admitting two horses of an unusually large and swift breed, their opalescent coats shining in the weak light of the setting sun. 

“Okay,” Stiles conceded, backing quickly toward the Jeep. “We’re headed to the main street. I’ll meet you there, yeah?”

“Not _yeah_,” Christopher told him as he vaulted with casual, practiced grace into the saddle. Before Stiles could escape to the confines of cold iron and steel, the Hunter had guided his mount forward and swept Stiles up in front of him. 

“Come on, put me down,” Stiles whined, giving Christopher’s chest a few sharp jabs with his pointed elbows. 

“Cease, little robin,” the Hunter ordered, one arm crossing over Stiles’ chest while the other masterfully handled the reins. 

“Don’t sulk,” Peter advised, already on his own horse. 

“_Don’t sulk_,” Stiles mimicked under his breath. “Don’t sulk, just allow yourself to be ferried about like a sack of unlucky potatoes.” 

Christopher’s arm tightened in retaliation, drawing a stifled gasp and another poke of Stiles’ elbow. The Hunter ignored him and they headed through the preserve to the downtown area, Christopher sending the horses back to the forest to wait when they reached the outskirts. 

Stiles led them to a small bakery, where warm light and the scent of cinnamon spilled out from the windows. The display cases inside were partially emptied from a day’s business, but there were still brightly colored macarons and glossy-frosted cakes and currant-studded biscuits as big as Stiles’ palm. 

“The food of mortals is as dust,” Christopher muttered, eyeing a glistening fruit tart as though it offered some personal affront. 

“I had a honey pastry once in Cyprus that didn’t displease me,” Peter countered, his own gaze on a _tarte au chocolat_ sprinkled with gold flakes. 

Stiles ordered espresso, two madeleines, and a slice of the tart Peter was looking at. There were identical twins working behind the counter, and the one whose name tag read Ethan checked them out. Stiles handed Peter the plate with the tart and took the rest for himself, leaving Chris empty handed.

“Nothing for your friend?” Ethan asked. 

“Nah,” Stiles replied. “He’s on a special diet of protein and self-righteousness. Doesn’t mix well with sugar.”

Ethan bit back a grin and Stiles winked. After Stiles had all but pushed Peter and Chris into chairs, he sipped his drink and focused on the escalating argument between two teenagers who stood near their table. 

“…had to skip a lecture on discrete mathematics to make the game, Jackson, and I didn’t appreciate you staring at the new girl on the dance team when I was _right next to you_.” The girl speaking flipped a long fall of red hair behind her shoulder and glared up at the athletic-looking boy at her side. 

He scowled and opened his mouth, but couldn’t think of a suitable retort. The girl rolled her eyes and looked away, tapping the toe of one high heel impatiently. 

“Hey, Lydia,” Stiles spoke up, interrupting their tense standoff. The redhead acknowledged him with a chilly glance but didn’t reply. “Soooo,” Stiles continued, “I wondered if you got the same results I did on that last lab we did in class?”

“You’ll have to be more specific,” Lydia sniffed. “I’m taking advanced three science courses this semester, and all of them have laboratory components.”

“Uh, I guess I meant the one from the class we’re both in? Chemistry?” Stiles’ pale face bloomed with an apparently self-conscious flush. 

“You don’t have to be such a bitch to him,” Jackson said.

“Now you’re defending him? You? Really, Jackson?” Lydia gave him a look of scornful disbelief. 

“Not everyone wants to win the, uh, the _Nobel Prize_ before twenty-five,” he snapped. “You don’t have to rub it in everyone’s face how smart you are.”

“Everyone? Or just _you_?” said Lydia. “And I don’t plan to be awarded the Nobel before twenty-five. I plan to take the Fields Medal by then.” She paused for emphasis. “That’s in mathematics, by the way.” 

“Hey, it’s no big deal,” Stiles began, but was cut off by the other twin calling out an order for three dozen cupcakes. 

Lydia gave Jackson an expectant look and a little shooing motion of her hand. He balked for a second, then gave in, scowling as he stomped over to the twin holding three large, white boxes. 

“Lydia Martin’s party?” the twin asked, eyebrows raised. 

“That’s the order, yeah,” Jackson replied sullenly, yanking the stack of boxes into his own arms. 

“Careful, big guy,” the twin cautioned. 

“Whatever,” Jackson grumbled. “They’re not that heavy.”

Stiles, watching their interaction, flicked an idle finger in Jackson’s direction. The other boy twitched violently, one hand coming back to clutch at his ass. Unfortunately, the sudden motion unbalanced the cupcake-filled boxes, and they began a slow, dramatic slide to the ground. 

Jackson lurched forward, trying to resettle them, and Ethan rushed around the counter to help. 

“Can you not do one, simple thing?” Lydia asked snidely. 

“Let me give you a hand getting those out to the car,” Ethan put in quickly, all but dragging Jackson out the door to the parking lot. 

“Really? That guy?” the remaining twin snarked at Lydia. 

“Jackson’s fine,” she replied immediately. “He’s the star of the lacrosse team. He gets good grades.”

“What an endorsement,” the twin said. 

“Listen—” Lydia made a show of reading his name tag “—_Aiden_. Jackson’s ambitious and driven and hot. That’s three more things than you.” 

“I’m wounded,” Aiden told her, hand to his heart. 

“Just give me the total so I can pay and leave,” Lydia directed. 

“Why don’t you give me your number and we’ll call it even?” Aiden suggested with a sly smile. 

“I’d prefer to pay a premium to get you to shut your mouth,” Lydia replied, anger lending her green eyes a hard sparkle. “You teenage assholes are all the same. None of you can think farther ahead than the end of your dick.”

Aiden blinked, clearly taken aback at the turn the conversation was taking. 

“Uh,” he managed. 

“I mean, I’m the smartest person in the entire school. I’m taking college-level biochemistry courses, I’m maintaining an A average, I play competitive tennis, and I apply two facial masks every night! I’m the whole package, Evan!”

“It’s Aiden—”

“Who cares?” Lydia waved her impeccably manicured hands in wild gestures. “I’m sick of hiding my accomplishments! I deserve more than sitting in the bleachers, freezing my ass off at lacrosse games! I’ve already got early admission at Stanford, Arden!”

“_Aiden_—”

“And I just realized I’m being as much of an idiot as Jackson if I turn it down.” Lydia stopped moving for several long minutes, as if arrested by an epiphany. “I don’t need this,” she whispered, voice all wonderment. “I have more options than staying in a one-department-store town.”

“Well, hoo-fucking-ray for you,” Aiden said loudly. “That’ll be $56.83. We only take cash.” 

Lydia, moving in a daze, gave him three twenty-dollar bills and slowly clip-clopped out the bakery door, murmuring to herself about research grants and college guys and possibly pursuing astrophysics as a hobby. 

Stiles stood, deposited his empty cup and saucer with an irritated-looking Aiden, and wandered out with Peter and Christopher on either side. They halted a few feet away from a silver Porsche, Stiles with a satisfied grin on his face as he took in the sight of Ethan pressing Jackson back and kissing him senseless. 

“That went pretty well,” Stiles said, satisfied. “I’ll bet Ethan has all sorts of inventive uses for the frosting on those cupcakes.” 

“You haven’t given up meddling, I see,” said Peter, giving a long, low whistle for his horse. 

“How many more fools must we aid?” Christopher asked, rubbing his temples. “The mortal world is quite tiring.”

“Aw, you tuckered out, grandpa?” Stiles cooed. 

“Just inform of us our destination,” Christopher sighed. 

“Okay, next up is the diner for dinner.” Stiles lingered over the syllables. “I’m going to miss English. So charmingly contradictory and illogical and entertaining.” 

He took them to an aging but scrupulously clean restaurant, with booths of faded red plastic and chrome stools set at a long formica counter. 

The three of them settled into one of the booths, where Stiles ordered curly fries and a chocolate milkshake with extra cherries on top. Peter watched with disbelief and Christopher with impatience as Stiles stuffed himself with greasy potatoes while groaning in pleasure. 

“It’s…obscene,” Peter said faintly. “But not in the enjoyable way.” 

“You can drink dew and honey to your heart’s content when we return home,” Christopher said to Stiles, glancing out at the dark sky. “I was under the impression you wished to _tie off loose ends_, not consume…whatever those objects are.” 

“Two birds with one stone,” Stiles replied, slurping down his milkshake. “I need to make sure a friend of mine is set on the right path before I go and I wanted a last meal. These fries are amazing and I will not listen to your baseless aspersions.” 

Before Stiles had finished speaking, the bell over the diner’s door jingled and a dark-haired teenager with soft eyes and an air of good-humored bewilderment came in. Stiles waved enthusiastically and the other boy approached their table with a wide smile. 

“Scotty!” Stiles exclaimed, shifting over to open up space on the bench. “These are some of my relatives from out of town. The one with the greying hair is Chris and the one with the villain beard is Peter. Guys, this is my friend Scott.”

“Hey, Stiles,” Scott said as he joined them, then turned his smile on Peter and Chris. “It’s great to meet you. How’s your trip been so far?”

“Enlightening,” Peter said, at the same time Chris answered, “Excessive.” 

Stiles’ face was somewhere between annoyed and entertained. 

“So,” Scott began. “How long are you guys visiting?”

The door opened again, and this time an older couple with their daughter walked in. Stiles’ eyes tracked their progress as they found a booth nearby and looked over the menu. 

“Oh, they’re just passing through,” Stiles said of Chris and Peter. “Did you hear there’s going to be a new history teacher?”

“Huh.” Scott sighed. “I don’t think a new teacher will miraculously improve my grade.”

“It’s October,” Stiles said. “How can you possibly be doing that badly after two months of school?” 

“Special talent?” Scott’s lips curved up again, his smile rueful this time. 

The girl who had come in with her parents rose to get her drink at the countertop. As she was crossing back to her parents with a milkshake, she passed by Stiles’ table and his eyes gleamed briefly. Just as the girl reached Scott, her hold on the heavy glass slipped, and she managed to spill it all over Scott’s pants and part of the booth. 

She and Scott froze, Scott with a lap full of strawberry ice cream and she with a mortified flush. 

“I am _so sorry_,” the girl whispered. 

“No way, totally not your fault!” Scott assured her, still staring at her face. He seemed oblivious to the state of his clothing. “You’re, uh, you’re really pretty.”

From somewhere behind Scott, Stiles let out an irritated hiss of air. 

“Hey, it’s Kira, right?” Stiles asked, depositing a stack of napkins in front of Scott. “I’m Stiles, I go to Beacon Hills High. You’re Mr. Yukimura’s daughter—the new history teacher? I ran into him the other day at school. This is Scott. He’s in our grade, too.” 

“Hello, Stiles—you’re right, I’m Kira,” she confirmed. “And hi…Scott.” She hesitantly took a napkin and tried to dab at the melting mess. 

“Scott…is me,” Scott breathed. “Uh, that’s my name, I mean. I’m Scott.”

“I’m so sorry about this,” Kira repeated, bending until the ends of her dark, silky hair brushed Scott’s legs. He made a strangled noise, quickly dropped a handful of napkins down to his lap, and began to industriously scrub at the milkshake. 

“N-no problem,” Scott said. “It’s not even the first time I’ve had a mess in my pants. I mean on! On my pants.”

Stiles exchanged a look with the unwillingly fascinated Peter and Christopher. 

“How about if you have them cleaned and let me know how much it is and I’ll pay you back?” Kira suggested.

“These are just ratty old jeans,” Scott protested. “I—” His face contorted briefly before screwing up in an expression of determination. “Would you maybe go on a coffee date with me instead? Tomorrow after school? I know this shop on Third Street. We could walk there together. Maybe?” His voice trailed off at the last part, courage exhausted. 

Kira gave him a wide grin before lowering her gaze shyly. 

“I’d love that. Scott. Thanks.” She glanced over at Peter and Chris then, as if realizing they existed for the first time. 

“Oh! These are Stiles’…uncles?” Scott introduced them hesitantly. 

“Sure,” Stiles smirked. “Uncles. Uncle Peter and Uncle Chris.” 

“Nice to meet you all. I’ll see you tomorrow, Scott,” said Kira. She gave the whole table a little wave before rejoining her parents. 

Scott sat in a puddle of cold, melted ice cream and sighed in bliss, his lashes fluttering. 

“I’m going on a date, Stiles,” he said dreamily. “A date with the prettiest girl I’ve ever seen.” 

“I’m happy for you, buddy,” Stiles said, clapping him on the shoulder. “Really. I think you guys will be very compatible.” 

“Such a charming way to meet,” Peter observed. 

“Like a movie,” Stiles agreed, cheerful. 

“I should probably go home and change,” Scott said. “I’m sorry I can’t stay, man.”

“No big deal,” Stiles said lightly. “We can catch up after your coffee date.”

Stiles followed Scott out of the booth then lunged forward suddenly to give the other boy a swift but hard hug. 

“Take it easy, okay? Don’t be so hard on yourself,” Stiles said into Scott’s shirt. “You’re a good friend.”

“Thanks?” Scott’s forehead wrinkled as he pulled back from the embrace. In a second, his natural optimism reasserted itself and he couldn’t seem to help the grin spreading across his face when he waved good-bye to Kira and her parents on his way out. 

“Let’s go,” Stiles said, leaving a generous assortment of cash on the table. 

“Where to next?” Peter asked. 

Stiles loosened the stiff set of his shoulders and stared down at the screen of his phone for several minutes, nimble fingers flying over the screen. When he lifted his head, the confident glint in his eyes was back. 

“The hospital. Summon your steeds, my agéd uncles. We ride for Beacon Hills Memorial.” 

When they were a block away from the diner, the two horses trotted up through the darkness. 

“I hope you know what a pain it is to make it look like you’re riding motorcycles,” Stiles grumbled as he was positioned in front of Peter. 

“I’ve never doubted your thoroughness, my dear Mischief,” Peter murmured, strong thighs bracketing Stiles’ slim hips. “Your wisdom, on the other hand, regularly comes into question.”

Stiles made a disgruntled sound, but condescended to sink back into Peter’s warm, hard chest. Peter’s clever fingers pinched Stiles’ waist and he squeaked. 

“Don’t sulk,” Peter said again. “It’s unbecoming.” 

“Hospital’s two miles ahead on the right,” Stiles grumbled. 

Assured that the humans would now see nothing more than two bikes, Peter and Christopher left the horses waiting outside the building when they arrived, and followed Stiles into fluorescent lighting and disinfectant-scented air. The boy led them into a bathroom then locked the door and casually wriggled his fingers, seeming to relish the fall of gold sparks—his own doing and entirely unnecessary to work his glamour—that accompanied the movement. 

“There we go,” he said, satisfied. 

Peter and Christopher looked down at themselves to see they were both attired as physicians. Each man’s white coat was embroidered with a name; Peter was Dr. Fenrir and Chris Dr. Jäger. Peter seemed to be suppressing a grin, while Christopher contended himself with a deep sigh. 

“Would you two gentlemen please locate a nurse for me? Melissa McCall. I need her to be passing by—” Stiles frowned for a minute, eyes distant in thought— “the coffee stand on the fourth floor in about twenty minutes. Sound good? Thanks, bye!” 

He darted out before hearing a reply. Christopher and Peter exchanged glances that were equal parts curiosity and reluctant amusement. They left the restroom to see Stiles hurrying over to a man in a tan uniform whose face was lined with weariness and care. A small bar across his pocket read _Stilinski_, and a sharp-edged badge near his shoulder identified him as the sheriff. 

“Stiles! Kiddo, what are you doing here?” Sheriff Stilinski asked in confusion. 

“Scott asked me to drop something off with Melissa,” Stiles lied unrepentantly. “What are _you_ doing here?”

“Looks like a hoax,” the sheriff replied, rubbing a tired hand over his forehead. “I guess I shouldn’t be surprised. It’s always something on Mischief Night.” 

“You look tired, dad,” Stiles said, an unaccustomedly tender light in his eyes. “C’mon, get a cup of coffee with me. There’s that coffee cart upstairs—they make actual lattes, not just the burned swill from the cafeteria.” 

Noah Stilinski hesitated, but after a minute nodded, putting an affectionate hand on Stiles’ shoulder and squeezing.

“Sure, kid.”

They rode up in the elevator together, Stiles noting the signs of age and stress around Noah’s eyes with disapproval. 

“You find a date for the department’s potluck yet?” he asked his father. 

Noah gave him a level look. 

“No.” 

“Tara was telling me her older sister—”

“Stiles, please stop trying to set me up.”

“But if I don’t, you’ll never date,” Stiles protested, appraising Noah from beneath his lashes before adding, “I mean, it’s not like you’re interested in anyone in particular. Right?”

The faint flush on his father’s cheekbones would have been missed by someone who didn’t know him that well, but Stiles was far from a stranger. 

“Hmm,” Stiles hummed. 

“Don’t _hmmm_ me,” Noah said. 

When they got out on the fourth floor, the coffee cart had closed for the day. Stiles let out a theatrical exhale, but pushed Noah into a chair beside the dark counter and filled up two paper cups of water from the cooler. 

“I don’t mind, you know,” said Stiles after they’d taken a few sips. 

Noah raised his eyebrows. 

“You finding someone else. Besides mom. I don’t mind.” 

“Stiles….”

“I know how special she was,” Stiles continued. “Believe me, I know. She was…incredible. The best mom. Patient and caring and…forgiving. I don’t think I’ve met any mo-_mother_ as open-minded and generous. And I know what she meant to you. But, dad….” Stiles bit his lip, his features suddenly losing their usual self-assured slant. “I won’t be here forever. I mean—college, right? I want to know you’re settled and…not lonely.”

Noah leaned forward to grip Stiles’ shoulder again, this time holding on for several minutes. 

“Thanks, kid,” he said, voice hoarse. “But you don’t have to worry about me.”

“So _stubborn_,” Stiles groaned, barely audible. He put his own hand over Noah’s and gripped it hard for a second before standing. “Okay, I’ve got to find some real caffeine. I’m pretty sure the guy who runs this coffee place keeps his stuff in the closet by the cart.”

Stiles disappeared behind the coffee stand and Noah hurried after him with a steady stream of protests.

“Stiles, you can’t just break in—not to mention that it’s probably locked—we can just go downstairs—”

“Ah-ha!” Stiles threw back the door to a dark, surprisingly large space. He flipped on dim overhead lights to reveal several bags of coffee beans and assorted supplies. “I think I actually see an old Mr. Coffee in the back. I’ll leave some cash, don’t worry.”

“Get out of there now,” Noah ordered. “I—”

“Could you give me a hand?” Stiles called from the far wall. “You’ve still got a couple of inches on me, and this thing is up pretty high.”

“Stiles, have you lost your mind? There’s coffee downstairs!”

“Just come back here, will you?” There was a note of desperation in Stiles’ voice that Noah was helpless to resist. He started to move toward his son, but only made it a few steps in before his ankle gave out unexpectedly and he grabbed at a shelf to keep from collapsing. 

“Shit, dad, are you okay?” Stiles flew to his side. 

“Language,” Noah ground out. 

“Is it your heart?” 

“It’s my ankle,” Noah glared at him. 

“Does it hurt?” Stiles hovered, long fingers pressing anxiously over his father’s leg. 

“Strangely, no,” Noah realized, frowning down at his ankle. “I can’t seem to put weight on it, though.”

“Well, let me help you up—”

Stiles stopped, cocking his head to the side to listen to something. 

“Just give me a hand,” Noah began, but then he heard the sound of people coming down the hall. 

“…very unusual for that kind of case to be up here,” came the voice of Melissa McCall. 

“We appreciate your time,” another voice, male this time, said, and the sentiment was echoed by another man. 

“Oh, good, Melissa’s here,” Stiles said, abandoning Noah and standing. 

“Stiles, wait, get back here—”

“My dad hurt his ankle,” Stiles explained, stepping out of the supply room and wringing his hands as he looked at Melissa and her companions, one Dr. Fenrir and one Dr. Jäger. “I’m so glad you happened by. Do you think you could take a look?”

Melissa’s eyes widened and she rushed into the supply closet.

“Noah, what are you doing here?” she asked, kneeling beside the sheriff and carefully feeling out the bones and tendons of his affected ankle. 

“Thanks, Melissa,” Noah said, breathing deeply, his eyes flickering over her downturned head with unmistakable affection. 

Stiles gazed at them for a few seconds, sorrow and fondness clear in his face. Then he turned and managed to trip, hitting the closet door hard enough for it swing shut. 

There was an ominous _click_, and then a frantic jiggling of the doorknob from the inside. 

“Stiles! Stiles, this door is locked! Stiles, can you hear me?” Melissa yelled, knocking hard on the door. 

“I can’t get the door open,” Stiles told her, making no effort to try. “I’ll have to find someone with the keys. I’ll text or page you if it’s going to be a while.”

“There’s no reception in here!” Melissa protested. Noah, his voice a soothing rumble, said something indistinct, and Melissa sounded calmer when she spoke next. “Tell the front desk, Stiles,” she directed. “It shouldn’t take very long. We’ll be fine. I don’t even see swelling on your dad’s ankle.”

“I’ll do my best,” Stiles told them through the door. He dropped his forehead against the smooth wood and let it take his weight for the length of a long breath. “Love you, dad,” he added in an undertone. “Be happy.” 

When he turned around, his golden-brown eyes were suspiciously wet, but his smile was firmly in place. 

“Right,” he said. “That door should unlock once they’ve had a chance to sort things out. But we have a couple of hours before the sun sends us home, don’t we?”

Christopher stepped forward and wordlessly pressed Stiles to his chest. 

“I had not considered all aspects of the changeling ordeal,” he said. 

“I’m fine.” Stiles’ voice was muffled by Chris’ coat, but it still sounded a bit watery. He pulled his head clear and gently detached himself from the Hunter. 

“What next, Mischief?” Peter asked. 

“Revels,” Stiles answered, a hint of the usual spark returning to him. 

The three departed on soundless feet, no eye marking their passage as they left the hospital and guided their mounts to an industrial part of the city. 

“Behold, the Jungle.” Stiles swept his arm toward a large, converted warehouse, the flashing, multi-colored lights just visible through high windows. 

“What passes here?” Christopher asked.

“If our fresh raiment is any guide, we can expect carousing and merriment,” Peter said with a smirk. 

Christopher stared at the new attire Stiles had glamoured for them and, far from the disapproval their errant Mischief might have expected, his expression sharpened with anticipation. 

It was the Hunter’s turn to rake his gaze down Stiles’ form, eyes glinting as he took in the tight trousers, the thin, sleeveless shirt, and the leather braces that crossed his torso. Stiles’ lips glistened with a clear gloss and his thickly lashed eyes were exaggeratedly doe-like, lined in deep brown pencil. He’d made himself irresistible prey. 

Peter and Christopher shared near-identical smiles comprising mostly teeth. Stiles had given them both leather trousers, waistcoats, and collared shirts rolled up to expose muscular forearms. Their trio looked like the stars of an adult film about illicit goings-on at a law firm. 

Flanked by Guard and Hunter, Stiles strolled right past the oblivious bouncer and into the heat and sweat of the crowd. Under the flickering beams of light, Stiles’ pale skin glowed, and the flashes of illumination showed a creature entirely given over to the immediate. 

The pulsing beats of the music guided his limbs, and his muscles were fluid as he moved with otherworldly grace. To all outward appearance, any hint of the awkward teenager or insecure boy had fled. 

Christopher put strong fingers on Stiles’ hips, bringing them tightly together as they danced. His silvering head tipped down and his lips were soft against the smooth skin behind Stiles’ ear. The Hunter smiled darkly when he felt his prey shiver. 

Peter, in front of them, moved in a way that expertly wove together ancient patterns with unpredictable improvisation, a dance both elegant and explicit. Stiles’ pupils widened, blackness encompassing all but a thin rim of gold, as he watched the captain of Queen Titania’s Guard, a prince in his own right, manipulate his human form sinuously, every twist and glide a living complement to the music. 

As one song flowed seamlessly into the next, Peter stepped into Stiles’ space, hemming him in with Christopher still at his back. Chris locked his arm around Stiles’ waist and brought his other hand up to fist the boy’s expertly mussed hair, getting a firm grip and preventing Stiles from moving his head. 

Peter leaned forward slowly, waiting for Stiles’ pink lips part involuntarily and his breath to quicken. When Stiles, impatient, raised his arms to draw Peter into the kiss, Peter took a wrist in each hand and forced them down. Trapped, Stiles moaned. 

“You’ve fulfilled every part of your bargain so far, Mischief,” Peter said, the feel of his breath, so close to Stiles’ lips but not touching them, eliciting a shiver. 

“We’ll stay until dawn,” Christopher said. His big hand splayed out over Stiles’ stomach, rucking up his shirt and touching smooth, bare skin. 

Peter closed the final distance between his lips and Stiles’, coaxing Stiles’ mouth open and licking into the wet depths with a carnal groan. Chris freed Stiles’ hair and trailed long fingers down Stiles’ neck, pausing to rub teasingly at a sensitive spot at the nape of his neck. 

Wrists captured still, Stiles tried to get closer to Peter, to kiss him harder. Peter gentled his motions, pulling back and observing the flushed face of his Mischief with pleased eyes. 

Christopher pressed the hard length of his cock against Stiles, grinding for a second before sliding both hands down the V of Stiles’ hips. The fingers of one hand adjusted the boy’s erection, pointing it upward and bringing the very tip in line with the waist of his pants. Stiles whined, trying to rock his hips into Peter without success. 

“These mortal forms are remarkable at times.” Chris smiled into Stiles’ neck. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you with so little control.” 

“N-not my fault,” Stiles gasped. “This body is s-so young. Oh, _Danu_, I’m going to—”

Christopher looked down to see Stiles had spattered milky fluid over his exposed stomach and part of Chris’ hand. He examined the ejaculate for a minute, then carefully gathered it up and put his fingers in front of Stiles’ face. With a broken moan, Stiles opened his mouth and licked his spend off the Hunter. 

“You are truly lovely like this,” said Peter as he tilted his head to kiss Stiles again. Deliberately, Peter pushed his hips to Stiles’, his enjoyment evident when Stiles whimpered and tried to jerk away, oversensitive even through his trousers. 

Christopher and Peter kept him trapped between the two of them, secure and surrounded. Stiles let them take his weight as they danced, and if his eyes grew damp occasionally, they said nothing. The Hunter, the Guard, and their Mischief twisted and swayed with the music until the darkness gradually began to lighten. 

“We are for home, little robin,” Christopher said, guiding them toward the exit. 

“I’m tired,” Stiles said, clinging a little to Peter and Chris. 

“The ride is short,” Peter reminded him. “Come, dearest Mischief, let us lead you back.” 

“I’m sad,” Stiles said, rubbing his cheek against Peter’s shoulder. 

“Your life is long,” Christopher replied. “We must away before the stars fade.” 

Their horses snorted and pawed restlessly outside the Jungle. Peter mounted first, then lifted Stiles from Christopher’s arms into the saddle. 

“Thank you,” Stiles said. “I’m glad she sent you two.” 

“As are we,” Peter responded, his warm, unyielding forearm holding Stiles close. 

The horses’ hooves brought them swiftly to the forest, and soon the mushroom circle greeted them. Stiles straightened at the sight, leaping lightly from the saddle, his feet hardly bending the grass as he landed. Already his time as Stiles Stilinski was fading. He glanced behind him at the remains of a pale-blue Jeep, its tires long disintegrated, and its sturdy frame twined all around with strong, green vines and tiny, white blossoms. 

Then he closed his eyes, taking a deep breath before opening them again. Peter and Christopher stood patiently, waiting for him to step forward. Stiles nodded once in farewell to the forest then joined them.

“Good night unto you, Beacon Hills.”


End file.
